


Followed, Led, Fled

by Anonymous



Category: Far Cry 3
Genre: Brother/Sister Relationship, F/M, Sibling Incest, also please please don’t read this if you are underage, although they do have different last names so they might not be blood related, and don’t take this as romanticizing incestous relationships, anyways it’s not a healthy relationship obviously, but i’ll read comments and respond anon if it’s possible idk, hopefully explains why & how vaas is Like That, i wrote this as hopefully a prequel to a vaason fic, if anyone has any beside Ew Gross This is just wrong, it’s really really not a good idea and these characters are full of wrong ideas, like dude i know that, maybe half siblings?, maybe it's more of an M than an E but just in case, shit even Vaas figures that one out, submitted as anonymous because goodness wouldn’t you?, takes place pre-game canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Our fucking loved ones, they come and they blindside you every fucking time.Like, you know, like they fucking think that I need to make a fucking choice.





	Followed, Led, Fled

**Author's Note:**

> please don’t read if you are underage or if content like this is harmful to you

He's three.

A man comes to see his mother. His people are angry, but he doesn't know why.

The stranger is angry too, and he shouts at Vaas' mother in words Vaas doesn't understand.

She is not a tall woman, but she stands under the tree, and the entire world is beneath her.

She laughs at the man, flings an arm in the direction of where his sister has begun crying, but she does not look. Only stares at the man, asking him a question with the strange words Vaas does not know.

The stranger nods. Everyone seems to relax a little.

She takes Vaas' hand, leads him to the man, lets him go.

His mother turns away, walks back into the temple.

He never sees her again.

He's five.

He's learned the words of his father, the words of his men. There are many words to learn. He learns to speak again.

He's not afraid of them anymore. They never hurt him.

They teach him how to plant the seeds, how to prune back the parts that do not grow as well to make the plant stronger. They teach him how to cut them down.

They hide him away when strangers come to collect the crops.

They sing songs and tell him stories of far away places that he wonders about.

They teach him to read and write in several languages, and he always mixes up the rules about where words go. They teach him to read out loud, and soon he's in charge of storytime around the fire.

Sometimes a few of his uncles go away on a boat trip. They return weeks later with books and candy for him.

It's a peaceful life, in his father's camp.

He's eight.

Sometimes the men talk of other places on the island, of women and hunting.

Vaas wants to go, but his father refuses.

He learns how to cook and cure meats. One of his uncles tries to teach him how to cut the meat away from a dead animal, but when his father sees the blood on his hands he takes the knife away. He tells Vaas that there are other jobs to learn, and that one is not for him.

He's ten.

A girl watches him from the tree line. He hasn't seen a girl in a long time, but her eyes pull him toward her. Dark lines and symbols wrap around her chin and thigh, and the light shines off the glittering metal woven into the leather of her bracelets and dress. She's barefoot, and Vaas blinks a few times, wondering if she is really there. She looks like a goddess of the jungle.

She is captivating.

Vaas walks toward her carefully. His father is away with most of the other men. The uncles who stayed behind are napping in their little huts. Vaas wonders if he should wake them, but they always worry too much over him.

It's a little girl, not a tiger.

"Vaas!" she cries, and runs to him, wrapping him up in her thin arms.

He pushes her away, shocked.

"Who are you?" he demands, upset by his surprise.

"I am Citra, your sister, and you are my brother! Have you forgotten me? Have you forgotten your people?"

Vaas doesn't know what to say. He remembers a big stone temple. He remembers his mother, vaguely. Sometimes he dreams she is hundreds of feet tall, with fire in her eyes. He remembers the sounds of her crying.

He's eleven.

He's been lying to his father for a long time. He's asked him the questions Citra told him to ask. Where is his mother? Why can't he see her? Why can't he meet other people? Why can't he see where he was born?

His father always tries to change the subject, sometimes he gets angry and leaves Vaas alone with his uncles and goes fishing.

One time he tries when his father has been drinking whiskey. He's half asleep, on his bed, singing along to a cassette tape.

Vaas asks if his mother misses them.

"Destiny is bullshit," his father says, "Fate? You can't avoid fate, but destiny? Destiny will take you down. Destiny will take your heart, your soul, and your mind. It will drain every part of you until nothing is left."

Vaas stops asking questions.

Citra walks into the jungle, and he follows.

He's thirteen.

His people trust him more now, and he's allowed to explore. It's taken him almost a year of wandering out, making his own map of the island. Citra's always angry if he's gone more than a day, so he brings back presents, fruits, gemstones, guns.

Sometimes he wonders if she believes his excuses, if she knows he's looking for his father's camp.

When he comes to the edge of his father's fields, a cold stone of guilt lodges itself in his throat.

The men he sees there are not his uncles. He doesn't know them.

One of their radios buzzes with a voice speaking sharply in English, and the man replies back.

For a moment, he thinks about approaching, asking the men if they know where his father has gone, but the careful way they each rest a hand on the guns slung around their shoulders tells him that would be a very stupid idea.

It doesn't matter. His father's not here anymore.

He walks back to the temple, tells Citra a tiger chased him up a tree and he fell asleep waiting for it to leave him alone.

Her men return the next day, and give him a tiger's head.

He vomits in his piss pot, and dumps it out himself before anyone can smell it.

His time for fear and weakness has run out.

He's seventeen.

He's just come back from his first hunt, brought meat for his tribe, his family. He's a man now, the blood of the boar staining his wrists.

Citra pulls him away, tells him she has a surprise for him. She runs laughing through the jungle, he tries to keep up.

He finally catches her at a waterfall he's never seen before, although it can't be more than a mile from their home. She strips off everything and dives in. He follows.

He swims over to where the water splashes down. She follows.

He swims back and forth underneath, letting the water pound down over his head, washing away the salt of sweat from his hair. She takes each wrist, gently scrubs away the last of the blood on him. Just as gently, she runs her fingers through his hair, then without warning, she pushes him down under the water.

He comes back up with a frustrated sputter of water. She's halfway across the pool, and he chases her until he's almost breathless, pushing her under in revenge. She sinks below the water willingly with a smile.

When she comes back up, she's near the edge, pulling herself up and out. He follows.

She's laying on her back in the grass, still panting but relaxed. He lays beside her, stares up at the trees.

"You have the warrior inside you now, brother," she says, and Vaas has never felt more proud.

"I can fight for us," he says, his accent different from hers from his time away. He tries not to think of that time, because it is the past, and Citra is his family now. Everyone else is gone. He can fight for her.

"Do you feel the warrior within you, Vaas?" she turns her head, and he turns his. She's all he can see.

"Feel it how?" Vaas asks.

Citra laughs at him, but it doesn't hurt. He loves to make her laugh.

"In your body," she tells him, her eyes bright and shining.

"Sometimes I feel it in my chest, like when you chase me," she continues, rolling on her side to face him, "I feel you hunting me, and I feel it here."

She runs her fingertips over the tip of one nipple, standing erect in her excitement. She takes his hand, touches his fingers to it.

"See? My flesh is tightened. Feel it. Like this."

Vaas feels apprehensive, but Citra arches her chest forward and touches her other nipple, pinching and pulling, guiding him like always. He closes his fingertips around the soft skin and presses, plucks at it.

"See?" she sighs, "You feel it too."

She slides a still damp fingertip over one of his own hardened nipples and presses. He feels it too.

"Someday my breasts will feed children, the Rakyat warriors who will inherit our kingdom. But for now, brother, I must nurse the warrior in you."

She pulls his head to her, and he goes without hesitation, suckling and licking at each nipple, clutching at her breasts like a hungry child. It's a symbol, he knows, that she is also his mother, the mother of his tribe now. He feels it too, just as she says, hardening his body. The blood of the hunt pulses through him, and he can feel his manhood growing thick.

"I feel the spirit of the warrior coursing through you, I feel it here," she says, guiding his hand to her stomach. The muscles are tense, a touchable mirror of his own body's reactions.

"Do you know where I feel your power most deeply?" she breathes, her voice low. She pulls his hand lower, between her legs. Her finger slides over his own, pressing it through the hair and into the slick spot between them.

"It's there, Vaas. Your power gives me softness. Do you feel how it welcomes the warrior within you?" she asks, and Vaas feels it keenly, her hand guiding his fingers between her lips, stroking at the soft wetness, pushing them inside.

Her body presses closer, her breasts pressing against his chest as she spreads her legs wider, urging him to feel her power and his own as he rubs and presses deeper.

"Citra," he breathes in wonder, the tip of his manhood slick and sliding against her belly.

"Yes, you feel the warrior within you too, but it does not make you soft here, like me. You grow hard and strong with your power."

The back of her hand slides down against his own, and her palm encircles him. She brushes her thumb over the tip, then grips him, sliding the skin up and down.

He looks into her eyes, and the hunt is pounding in his ears, overtaking him.

"One day, you will claim me completely, and our bodies will drink of each other until the last drop."

She shows him what she means, angling him down, pulling him forward. He removes his fingers from her, moves them out of the way, and she grips him firmly, sliding just the tip of him between her lips. Vaas wants to press himself further, let himself sink deep into that welcoming heat, but she pushes him back, releases him.

"It is not yet time, my warrior."

"Citra, please," Vaas moans, his eyes pinched shut.

"You wish to drink of my body?" she asks, amused.

He grips himself, touching the way she did, the slickness of her coating him and make his own touch even more thrilling. He presses his face into her neck and vows "yes".

She places a hand on his shoulder, pushing lightly. He follows.

She rolls onto her back and spreads her legs wide, both hands guiding his head between them.

"Drink from me, Vaas."

He licks into her, and she tastes like the ocean, like a storm. He laps it up, drinks deeply, slides his hand quickly between his crouching legs. He feels more powerful than he ever imagined, and soon Citra's body leaps and quivers beneath him as she shouts his name.

The sharp cry disturbs the jungle around them, startles birds into flight. The few predators on the island rarely come this close to their temple, but Vaas is not worried. His senses are alight as the warrior flows through him, and no predator is a match for him, no man or beast would dare threaten them. He'll kill for her. She is everything.

He wants to kill for her. He wants her to see.

She pushes at his shoulders again, and they both sit up.

Her gaze is focused on where his hand is working himself furiously, and she reaches for his thighs, guides him to stand, and opens her mouth for him.

He's barely inside when he feels the warrior rush through him, releasing itself back into her. She is the source of his power, all he has to give flowing over her tongue. She drinks from him, every drop.

He collapses back down onto the ground, sleeps for a while, and awakens with Citra stroking a hand up and down his chest.

"I can smell the meat of your kill," she remarks, and Vaas can too, the wind carrying the scent of roasted boar between the trees, "It is time to return."

She dives back into the water, the playfulness gone with the last rays of sunlight.

She dresses, and walks back in the direction they came from without any further comment.

Vaas stares at the water, listens to the rush of the cascade, listens for her footsteps through the brush, but she makes no sound. He follows. 

 

He is nineteen now.

Citra loves him, worships him as he worships her.

He's learned that for others, brothers and sisters do not come together as man and woman in the way they do. He's noticed the members of his tribe have become even more devoted to Citra, though they seem to talk to him less. Almost no one looks him in the eye anymore, save Citra.

She comes to him most nights. They worship each other's bodies, feel the warrior move through them. On some nights, she brings him foul-smelling liquids to drink. She says they will make him stronger. He sees terrible visions that he does not understand. Citra seems to, when he describes them, but she does not explain.

She holds him. Touches him tenderly, urgently. He tells her he loves her. He asks if it is wrong to love her in this way, if their people hate him because he is her brother. She tells him their blood is powerful, the blood of the warrior, the blood of the dragon. She tells him the most powerful beasts in the jungle choose their mates without regard for the lesser creatures.

She tells him it will be time for him to claim her soon.

"Blood has made me a woman," she says, "but it has not yet made you a man."

Her words feel like a blade, cutting through him with humiliation.

When soldiers are spotted near their temple, he shows her. He kills five men, and returns awash in their blood. Only after she washes the blood away does he realize he's been wounded, but he smiles as he collapses at her feet.

Now she knows he is a man, how far he is willing to go.

He sleeps. The first time he wakes, his body throbs with wounds and Citra's medicines. The tatau marks his wrist. Citra tells him it will grow as the power within him comes to the surface.

He feels weak, and humiliated again. He should always be strong, powerful, ready to fight, kill, and die for her.

Citra bids him to sleep. She reassures him that all warriors must learn to heal. She brings him sweet liquids that aid his rest, but luckily bring no dreams.

He rests. He wanders the temple, growing a little stronger each day. He reads the inscriptions on the walls, the words of the warriors. He studies the carvings, the history of their people.

One night, he's deep underground, in some of the oldest, most neglected parts of the temple. It's easy to get lost down here. Some of his people say they hear the spirits of failed warriors down here. Some laugh at that, but some hold fear in their eyes. Some say nothing at all.

He finds a small passageway, light flickering from the end. Maybe this part of the temple is not as neglected as he'd thought.

He has to hunch down to make it through. When the tight passageway winds to the left, he finds himself in a small room with rounded walls, covered in pictures and symbols that spiral around. A torch burns in a small sconce in the center of the floor. He picks it up, brings it closer to see the images.

He sees the story of their lives etched by hands long dead.

The giant. The warrior. The priestess. The hunt. The kill. The warrior bathed in blood. The priestess, astride the warrior, surrounded by fire. A blade plunged deep in the warrior's chest. The priestess heavy with child. The new warrior. It repeats, over and over. There are a few variations. Sometimes two warriors are engaged in battle, the tatau on their arms marking their status. The priestess eventually claims one, if not both.

The spiral story comes to an end just above the entryway, with the lower third of the wall uncarved.

The last image is the priestess, astride the warrior, surrounded by fire, the dagger hidden behind her back.

Vaas drops the torch, seeing his story coiled around him like a snake, poised to squeeze the life from him, every last breath.

He crouches and flees back through the passageway.

He makes it back through the cold stone tunnels, up stairs and ladders and back to the lived-in part of the temple, back to his chambers, the comfortable bed gone a bit smelly with his recent convalescence. 

He lays himself down, and focuses on breathing in and out evenly, and eventually the panic subsides into bone-deep exhaustion.

He wakes with Citra's mouth on him, his hips already rolling up rhythmically. He fights the urges to scream, but thankfully she mistakes his panic for enthusiasm. Something in him is, and he releases only moments later, heart beating so hard it hurts and danger screaming in his mind.

Maybe it's the spirit of the warrior, fighting for its will to be done.

Maybe he's just fucked up.

"You are ready, my warrior, my brother. Soon you will claim me. Claim your destiny."

She kisses him, and his mind is hazy for a moment, in the way that only Citra can do to him. He thinks dreamily that it might not be so bad, finally giving in to that raw, unstoppable power. Claiming her, his birthright. Letting her claim him.

He loves her. He's killed for her. Wouldn't she spare him, for his loyalty, his devotion, his all-consuming love? And she loves him, doesn't she?

No.

She loves the warrior within him.

She leaves him, leading the way to the temple mount, where fires surround the stone dias at its summit.

He doesn't follow.

He runs.

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, so Vaas is somehow less fucked up than Citra, but unfortunately he doesn’t quite escape. i imagine i’ll eventually continue this with the vaason fic it’s meant to lead to, but for now it’s thumping around in the broken dryer of my brain. i’m thinking weird reincarnation shit, magical fuckery, and hopefully some good old fashioned hatefucking, cause that’s why we’re all here. leave words if you want.


End file.
